The morning tee was filled with talk about the direction of the infection, the detection.
No election, reflection, correction, nor recession conversation followed the first fairway. On hole number seven our attention was demanded as Dalhed’s wedge landed past the pin and gradually wandered back at the cup like a lost orphan. It bit and made its slow retreat back at the cup.
I crossed my orange-Cheetoed fingers as the ball continued to tease toward the hole. There’s always some clown who yells, “Go in the hole!” Today I was Bonzo. I yelled—the men on the 8th tee rushed to see the retreating ball. Back, back, back—it came to a stop an inch from the cup!
I instantly realized that Sam Dalhed had committed some ungodly act in a past life. I suddenly saw him as one of the Black Sox, the scout on the Donner Party, or Snidely Whiplash! Some kind of massive karma had risen up on the seventh green to yell, “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” No, that was actually me.
Remarkable shot, a superb shot! (See the pics)
I was plagued all day with Fred’s putting, chipping, and driving. Those silly shots he makes from off the green that go bip-bop-stop! Bip this, Yoda!
Sam's remarkable shot!
